Regrets and Mistakes, They are Memories Made
by shooting-stetsons
Summary: In which Joanna Watson and Sherlock Holmes meet a bit sooner than in the canon, and make simultaneously the best and worst mistake of their lives.
1. Chapter 1

On the bright side, her limp was gone.

It had all begun with an enormous misunderstanding and an even bigger series of stupid mistakes after that. She had chiefly misunderstood when the lookout shouted "_Don't go!_" and heard it as "_Go! Go!_" along with three corporals and a lieutenant. That was when she'd been shot. The four with her had died after three weeks in a hole in the ground. Then she had been shipped to a military hospital in Kabul, where she had failed to inform the overworked and understaffed nurses that she felt unwell until the infection and malaria had set in. Once she was completely unfit for duty, shooting arm wrecked and flesh eaten away right down to the bone, the army sent her home like doing anything other that shooting her like she wanted was a huge favor.

The first thing she'd done when able to drag herself out of bed without falling was to get ridiculously drunk at some seedy nightclub near the bedsit. She didn't have anything "nice" to wear so had stuck with jeans and a now ill-fitting jumper and limped her way to a stool at the bar. Even looking like death warmed over some creep had decided to hit on her, "accidentally" knocking her cane to the floor when she told him to piss off. When she had retrieved it and got back to her stool he eagerly pushed an apology-drink at her. He hadn't mixed the drugs in very well, too rushed for time, and she threw it into his face. Had her shoulder been in better shape, she would have hit the bastard too, but the alcohol burning his eyes seemed like enough. She didn't make a fuss or call for the police, didn't want the attention or the speculation. All too familiar with the "wait..._he_ wanted to rape_ you?_" attitude toward ugly girls like her, she was.

Instead, she had ordered a new drink, just as strong but not as fruity, and spent the next hour shutting out the universe. Her shoulder was hurting, and though the doctor in her screamed not to mix pain medication with alcohol she swallowed a pill, because _shit, it made her feel so good_. The world went fuzzy and grey around the edges, cotton filled her ears and muffled the horrendous noise people started to call music while she was overseas, and everything became rather funny. She laughed for the first time since Afghanistan.

"A man in his early forties wearing a bespoke suit and aubergine tie attempted to drug you," announced a new voice on her left, echoing as though it were underwater. She looked around and found a devastatingly handsome man sitting on her right, with curly dark hair, prominent cheekbones, and bright, bright, bright eyes. Then she thought of that song, that "turn around bright eyes" song, and started laughing all over again. "Though it appears you've finished the job for him," added the new man, the handsome one, his lip curling slightly.

She brushed the fringe from her eyes and jerked her good leg upward - her shoulder bad was looped around her ankle so it could be out of the way without getting stolen - and clumsily pulled out her bottle of pills. "S'all legal, mate, if you're a copper," she tried to say, though there was a lot more slurring and giggling involved.

The man plucked the bottle easily from her trembling fingers, briefly inspecting it before tucking it back into her bad for her. "I don't care," he announced. Were she sober, she would have noticed how fucking huge his pupils were and how much his voice was actually shaking. "I was going to try to find him, the man drugging you, but I don't have to any longer. You threw your drink at him. He's going to go to the A&E for his eyes or the police to try having you charged, and they all have his photograph in the database. Now I've nothing to entertain me for the evening." His luscious mouth twisted into the most beautiful pout she had ever seen; she'd never known petulance could be sexy before.

"Sorry," she shouted over the din of buzzing in her ears, feeling stupid and reckless, which in turn made her leg hurt less. "Maybe I can help with that."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and smirked. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The next morning she'd woken up in the bedsit alone, sticky with sweat and come, with a pounding headache, no recollection of the night before, and the name Sherlock scribbled in her untidy scrawl on the notepad by her bed.

Over the ensuing weeks the memories seemed to come with her in sync with the nausea and headaches. It was only what she deserved, really, being so stupid to get into a situation like this with some random bloke in a club who, in hindsight, was probably high off his arse. The rest of her was recovering well: she was putting on weight, though still not nearly enough, and her shoulder was gaining strength. But six weeks after her disastrous time in the nightclub she was tired, achey everywhere _but_ in her shoulder, spotting, and vomiting halfway through each day. She needed to see a doctor; she wouldn't trust an OTC test with this.

Of course she would be placed with Mike Stamford doing locum work, because the surgery she decided to visit was short-staffed due to the flue season and he liked to volunteer his free hours. For a few moments she was convinced she might be able to laugh the whole ordeal off as a surprise visit to her old uni mate and escape after a bit of gabbing, but once they'd exchanged the necessary platitudes about how they simply must go out for coffee sometime, Mike asked: "So what brings you in, Jo?" with a smile. She swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat, and her old friend seemed to sense something was wrong. "Why don't you sit down?"

She sat. Her hand was trembling. Nausea rolled in her gut. "I'm going to take a jab in the dark and guess you're not here for a check-up on your shoulder?" he softly asked. Mike had always been the best friend to talk to, never demanding information but always open to offer an ear.

Shaking her head, she swallowed and choked, "I did something really stupid, Mike." He listened silently, face quietly grim, as she recounted what she remembered of the night six weeks previous, and the symptoms that had started up days ago. "I don't even know his surname; it's going to be impossible to find him." She didn't cry, didn't shed a single tear as she voiced her worries and fears. Her hand had stopped shaking at come point.

Mike awkwardly offered to get another doctor to examine her, perhaps a woman to make her more comfortable, but Jo declined. She had seen how short-staffed the surgery was, and felt just as safe with Mike, her best friend since they were kids, than she would with a woman. If anything, it guaranteed she would be treated with care and respect. With a comforting professional detachment he ushered her up onto the examination table, prodded gently at her abdomen - still pliable, but definitely bloated - and measured her blood pressure and temp. There wasn't much he could do as a GP without being a certified gynecologist, but it didn't much matter. Part of her already knew.

"I'm just going to take a bit of blood now, run all the STI screens to be safe," explained Mike as he pulled out a syringe. "I'll put a rush on it for you. You should get the results-"

"In the post, yeah, I know," she finished for him with a tight smile, closing her eyes against the pinch. It was less fun on the other side of the needle.

Before she could pull on her coat when they were finished, Mile put a hand on her good shoulder. "You take care," he told her with a stern warmth. "Lots of sleep, eat your veggies, and you call if ever you want to talk. I'm sure the wife would love to have you over."

She nodded and pulled him into a brief embrace. "Thanks, Mike. You take care too." As she hobbled out on her cane, she heard Mike sigh in disbelief behind her. She could sympathize; he'd really gotten fat since they last saw one another.

Within four days there was a manila envelope in her postbox, containing the results of her basic screening for STIs and other easily-identified problems. She was clean for the more general infections and diseased, which was a relief, but she would have to wait to know about more complicated things like HIV. And she was pregnant. Jo was momentarily paralyzed with shock and terror, but then shook herself, packed up her bag, and went for a walk. Adrenaline was making her heart race and her limbs restless.

On the bright side, her limp was gone.

"I know you didn't ask me to call, but I got the results," she told Mike over her secondhand mobile after thirteen blocks. "Clean for STI, and definitely pregnant."

Mike let out a low whistle. "Jesus. You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine, just..." she shook her head. "I mean, I figured I was, I just didn't know what to do. I'm going to try Googling this bloke at the library, see if I can find his MySpace or something."

"Yeah?" Mike sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, I might as well. Even if I haven't decided on anything, he still deserves to know. I'll talk to you later." She rung off before he could say goodbye, knowing that the librarians wouldn't let her in on her mobile. Hunkering down in one of the little computer kiosks, she Googled the name "Sherlock," and got just about as much as she expected to with only an absurd first name to go on: an outdated baby name database, a Wikipedia page on some writer from the late 1800s, and a website for some private detective.

Hadn't he been a detective or something, that Sherlock bloke? He'd been going after the creep in the bar, and then he'd looked at her and known all about Afghanistan without her saying a word. That was what had hooked her in the first place, yes, she remembered now. He was definitely a detective, even if he hadn't said it in so many words. Too bad there wasn't a photograph. Venturing into the site forum, she found several lively debates involved in the conclusions of cases. Farther back Sherlock Holmes had participated in these discussions, mostly to tell people they were wrong. His tone on the forum and the way he pieces together his statements into long stiff-structured mechanical narrative were strongly reminiscent of their conversation at the club. At least she was fairly confident she'd found the right Sherlock.

Without measuring her words first Joanna opened up a new private message to Sherlock Holmes and typed, _I don't know if you remember me, but my name is Joanna and we met at the Vesuvius Club a few weeks back._ Before going any further she sighed and ran both hands through her messy short hair. Telling him via email would probably not be the best idea, but she definitely had to get into contact with him and talk about their situation. Because it was _their_ situation, not just hers; it taking two to tango and all that. _We really need to talk. Please email or call me ASAP_. She added her mobile to the end of the message, entered her email, and clicked Submit. A message came up on the screen telling her she would have a confirmation email in her inbox. Just to be certain she logged into her Hotmail account.

There were two messages in her inbox from the Science of Deduction website, one being the typical _Thank you for your submission_ message and the other being _You have a new email from_. Her heart jumped up in her throat; surely he couldn't already have seen...?

_This is an automated response from SHolmesscienceofdeduction:_

_I will not be answering emails for the time being. My brother has locked me up (again) and suspended my domain. This message reaches anyone to send me an email. I will look over your case when I return on 20 January 2010 and hack back in._

It was the twentieth of January. He could be back to her by the evening. Jo logged off and left the library, feeling relieved. It had started raining while she was inside. She pulled out her mobile again; it was the most she'd used it since coming home. "Mike, do you think I can come over and think aloud at you?" she asked.

"Of course!" insisted Mike. "What library are you at? I'll tell Annie we're expecting company and pick you up in the Boat."

She laughed aloud. "You still have the Boat?" The Boat was what they called Mike's car. It was rusty and ancient the day he got it, and that was when they were both seventeen.

"Yes, I still have the Boat! The old beauty's never failed me once! Now come on, where are you?"

Not about to turn down a free ride in the rain, Jo gave him directions to the library and was climbing into another childhood friend fifteen minutes later. "Oh, I've missed this car," she sighed as she threw her bag into the backseat. "I feel like when we were teenagers and you used to drive us home from school because you were the oldest in the class and wanted to show off; everyone was so jealous."

"Yeah, well, I also fancied the hell out of you," he added, and they both grinned. It had been common knowledge that when they were little kids Jo had fancied Mike, and when they were teenagers Mike had fancied Jo, but they never had overlapped and were now closer than Jo was to her own sister. As the car wound its way through familiar streets Jo leaned against the window. She was tired, she realized. She was really, properly tired, and dozed off until Mike pulled up at his house. "Okay?"

Rubbing her eyes, she nodded, "Mm. Think I'm having an adrenaline crash."

Mike smiled sympathetically and heaved himself out of the car, making his way around to her side before she could even muster the energy to get herself unbuckled. "Personally, _I_ think you're pregnant," he teased, giving her a hand up onto the pavement. "You should've seen Annie with our first, probably slept twelve hours a night at the beginning. We have three now, by the way."

"Three?"

"Three little girls," nodded Mike. "But they're at a birthday party until tonight, so you'll have to settle for photographs. Come in, come in, please."

Once Jo had met Annie and exchanged all the niceties, they retreated into the sitting room with cups of coffee. Mike gave her water. "You shouldn't have caffeine in your state," he scolded her when she complained.

She scowled at him. "I don't even know if I'm keeping it, you know."

"Well if you decide to keep it then you don't want it growing a second head now, do you?"

That made her laugh and sip her water with no further complaint. They sat quietly for a long time while Jo sorted her thoughts, still uncertain of herself, then remembered the reason she was there was to think aloud. "The thing is, Mike," she haltingly began, "if I'm going to have a kid I'm going to need a new place to live. And if I'm going to get a new place to live I'm going to need a job. And if I'm going to get a job it's going to have to be someone who will take me while knowing I'll be on maternity leave before they know it - which is no one. Which means I won't be able to get a job unless I, you know, take care of it. But if I'm not pregnant then why am I getting the new place and new job anyway? And...oh, Christ, I'm in trouble, aren't I?" She moaned and dropped her head into her hands.

"You've got a lot on your plate," Mike agreed. "But listen, in terms of a place, I do actually have a friend looking to go in on a flatshare. Pretty affordable, from what I hear."

Smiling to herself, Jo shook her head and put her water down. Her hands were trembling again, but it didn't feel like her tremor. All of her felt shaky and warm. "Mike, who in their right mind would want to flatshare with me? You remember what I'm like, none of my flatmates at uni lasted more than one term. And then of course there might be a baby involved at some point, depending on how it goes with this Sherlock b - _Mike!_" she shrieked as her friend spewed coffee halfway across the room. "Mike, what the hell-?"

"Sherlock?" Mike sputtered, still coughing. "You said a man named _Sherlock_ got you in this mess?" She nodded dumbly and he wiped a hand across his mouth. "You're _absolutely_ certain? Tall bloke, skinny, dark hair, and a really deep voice?"

"Yes," she said, "when I Googled him I got his website, the-"

"Science of Deduction, oh _Jesus_," sighed Mike. He looked like he was going to be sick. Jo felt like she was going to be sick, too, but for completely unrelated reasons. To her pleading look Mike pointed her toward the loo, and she tottered in.

Leaning against the edges of the bathroom sink, Jo had to squeeze her eyes shut against the feeling that the floor was swaying underneath her. It felt like when she was twelve and had been on a boat for the first time, and threw up all over her uncle Edward. He hadn't minded much, but she had felt utterly miserable and Harry laughed at her all the way back to shore. The whole floor was rocking back and forth, her head was spinning, and suddenly everything _hurt_. Then she remembered being in a surgery chock-full of people with the flu, and Mike knew Sherlock, and suddenly things were a bit not good because she was on the floor and Mike was trying to break the lock.

Jo didn't remember the car ride to the hospital, but did recall her head on Annie's lap and the nurses pulling her out of the car to Mike's strained, "Oh, _please_ be careful, she's pregnant!" She was in the hospital for five days while her fever refused to go down and her fluids had to be carefully monitored. By the time they let her out again she was back down the five tenuous pounds she'd gained since coming home and very weak, but at least was out of danger.

After a few days puttering around the bedsit, getting sick of feeling nauseous and tired, she called Mike and said she was ready to meet Sherlock - again.


	2. Chapter 2

Jo bit her nails all the way to Bart's, until they were worn right down to the quick and one of them actually cracked. She didn't know what she was going to say to this man, hadn't received a reply in her email, didn't know if he even remembered her. What if they hated each other?

The moment she and Mike edged into the lab her heart was in her throat. Sherlock Holmes was just as devastatingly handsome as he had been at the nightclub, though he'd put on a bit of much-needed weight as well and his hair was shorter. He was staring intent down through the eyepieces of a microscope, completely oblivious of his company. They settled against the far wall while she tried to muster the courage to say something, but Sherlock broke the silence first. "Mike, can I borrow your phone?"

Jo stiffened at the sound of his voice; it was just as deep as before but much steadier. Mike patted his pockets. "Sorry, it's in my coat upstairs," he said. He looked to Jo, silently prompting her to make her move.

"Here, you can use mine," she offered, mobile aloft.

Sherlock looked right at her but looked right through her, vaguely surprised as he reached for the mobile. "Oh. Thank you." His neutral expression became one of consternation when Jo wouldn't let go.

"I'm sorry, but do you remember me?" she asked. "We met at the Vesuvius Club nearly eight weeks ago."

His brow furrowed very briefly. "I'm afraid I don't recall."

"Well, I do, but we were both a little screwed up," she allowed. "Your pupils were about the size of Jupiter."

"Size of what?"

She momentarily gaped, then shook it off. "Listen, I know we met that night. Your name is Sherlock Holmes-"

"-which is also on my website-"

"-and I'm Joanna. The man I spoke to before you, he tried to drug me, you were chasing after him," she continued firmly. "And now I'm pregnant," she added.

His eyes flickered up to hers but quickly went back down to the phone. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken," he said, but he sounded uncertain. Once he'd finished with the text he handed it back. "Iraq or-?" The microscope went clattering onto its side as realization seemed to hit him.

She sighed and spread her hands. They both said: "Afghanistan," and she followed with, "_And_ the penny drops." Sherlock's mouth gaped like that of a fish on dry land as he went over their conversation from moments ago - mostly Jo saying she was pregnant - and went white as a sheet. Slowly he reached out blindly for a chair and yanked it under himself as his legs very likely gave way, pressing a hand to his mouth. "I'm not here to trap you or bully you," she said after allowing him a moment, with only a small sense of satisfaction at seeing him as terrified as she had felt upon getting the news. "I just needed to tell you. I'd like to sit down and talk with you about our options as well, if you're up for it." His mouth twisted as though he were going to be ill. "We need to discuss our next course of action," she prodded gently. "It's already been nearly eight weeks, so we're on a bit of a timer."

He made a sound that could only be described as smashing one's entire upper body against a keyboard before stopping himself and taking a quick breath. "Yesofcourse, we have a lot to discuss," he said very quickly, swallowed thickly while checking his watch, and carried on at a slower pace. "I - I have to go." Biting his lower lip, he looked up at her very briefly before snapping his gaze elsewhere. "I'm sorry, I have go back to the morgue and fetch something and - and then help make an arrest, or - or-"

"It's fine," she insisted, though her stomach rolled nervously. "We can meet tomorrow somewhere."

"Tomorrow?" repeated Sherlock, sounding faint.

Jo nodded. "Like I said, eight weeks," she said tightly.

One of Sherlock's hands seemed to rise of its own accord and fist itself in his curly hair, scratching almost frantically at his scalp. "Yes, of course. We can meet at my new flat and discuss arrangements and medical expenses and, ah..." he trailed off, trying to haphazardly shove notes into his shoulder bag with trembling hands. He looked up at her briefly again. "I'm sorry, I really must-"

"Go," she told him firmly, trying to fight a smile. It was almost unavoidable, watching him flounder for purchase. There was something endearing to it that made her want to pull him in and remind him things were going to be alright. With a grateful nod he hefted the bag over his shoulder, swung on his coat and scarf, and rushed out past the mousy woman in the corridor, who quickly retreated after him.

She met Mike's eye and was about to say something when footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Sherlock came rushing back. "The address! It's 221B Baker Street. I'll be there at seven." He said to Mike: "Afternoon," and to Jo, "Er...take care," before dashing out again.

After a moment of silence she and Mike both sagged slightly. That brief conversation had been exhausting. "I know this is serious," said Mike, fighting a fit of laughter, "but I have _never_ seen him like that before."

"He was running around like a chicken with his head cut off," she dazedly said, sinking into Sherlock's recently vacated chair. "He's not always that frantic?"

Giving in to his amusement, Mike shook his head. "Never. Never _ever_ is he that spastic. Usually made of stone, that man! Oh, God, you _would_ be the one to destroy his composure, wouldn't you?" He couldn't stop giggling until they were back at the hospital's front entrance. "Call me and let me know how things turn out, won't you? And try to be patient with Sherlock; he can be a bit of a berk, but usually when he says or does something stupid he thinks he's being nice and helpful." She agreed quietly and managed to get onto the next bus stopping near the bedsit.

Rather than going out again when she was hungry, Jo had an apple, toast, and a glass of orange juice (vile and full of pulp, just as she hated it) before laying listlessly on her bed. Doctor Thompson had emailed her that afternoon, encouraging her to keep up with her blog, but Jo wasn't in the mood for much of anything. She was nervous about meeting Sherlock the next evening, about what they would talk about. A part of her knew that she wouldn't be able to support herself if she decided to have the baby without some sort of financial help from Sherlock, whether he wanted to be involved or not, but that was only the tip of the iceberg if he really _did_ want to be.

Where would they live? Would they live together, or in separate flats? Would Sherlock be involved during the pregnancy itself, or only after the baby came - and if that were the case, would they have an alternate-weekend arrangement or something more casual? Oh, god, would they need to get lawyers involved to establish fair shared custody? And if _that_ were the case, then she would need to either find one who would work pro-bono or get two jobs rather than one to pay the fees. Then there were doctor's bills, and vitamins, and if she had a relapse while pregnant - malaria was tricky like that - then she could be in enormous trouble.

Thoughts swirled like angry bees through her mind as she lay in bed, both hands lying contemplatively over her stomach. Though she knew it was medically impossible for how far along she was, every once in a while Jo imagined she felt a nudge or stirring, until finally she fell asleep at two in the morning.

Seeing as she had nothing to do until she met with Sherlock later in the evening, Jo slept without setting an alarm, rising at noon still groggy. Mike wasn't kidding around when he said she would need plenty of sleep. She briefly considered going shopping but dismissed it almost immediately; there was enough food in the flat to take care of herself for the time being. Once she sorted things out with Sherlock she would go shopping. Then at least she could know whether or not to get vitamins as well as bread.

At half-two she pulled out her charity-shop laptop and logged onto her blog for the first time since she'd made the thing, watching the cursor blink for a while before typing _It's been an odd few days. I've been ill, which is why I haven't posted (happy, Ella?), but I ran into my old friend Mike Stamford at the clinic. I might also-_ And there she stopped, uncertain if she should release the news to her therapist just yet. _I'm meeting someone tonight. Could be good news or bad, I'm not sure yet._

Only because she knew she ought to get out of bed Jo fetched the paper from a nearby stand, and ate up a few hours reading and doing the crossword while nibbling on dry toast when eating occurred to her. Dry toast and the occasional apple were all she could hold down with morning sickness and her recent bout of flu conspiring against her.

For a while after that she went on Sherlock's website to see if he'd posted anything new once he'd come back. At first it was easy to miss, but she found a thread on the forum entitled _In need of advice._ A smile stretched the corners of her mouth as she read Sherlock's post explaining their situation and elegantly begging for advice from the few users who participated in the forums. He was rather good at sounding indifferent while panicking about an accidental pregnancy. At long last the day wore down to where she could leave and not feel as though it were too early. Her leg was hurting again but she couldn't afford a cab, so she took her cane with her. The day was damp and warmer than the norm for late January, so the walk almost felt like a treat.

Just as she was stepping up to the door of 221B a cab pulled up in the street behind her and out stepped Sherlock, looking much calmer and more composed since his brief episode the day before. She smiled and tucked her hands into her pockets while he pulled back the corners of his mouth, in the perfect imitation of a polite smile, and bounded nearer. "Joanna," he said in way of greeting, offering one hand. She barely had time to shake it before he was continuing. "So this is, obviously, the building. It's in a decent spot in regards to crime rates and schools, but I have a special deal with the landlady, Mrs. Hudson - I took a case from her a few years back, you know how it is - so it's really quite affordable."

He knocked on the door and a few moments later an older woman in a purple dress answered, beaming at Sherlock. "You've forgot your key again, haven't you?" she twittered as he pecked her on the cheek.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Joanna," he quickly introduced them before rushing up the stairs.

The old lady smiled warmly at her. "Now don't you worry about a thing, dear. Sherlock's already told me all about you; he was so nervous about you coming by I thought he might wee himself!" she fondly said, only for Sherlock to shout at her to shut it from upstairs. Jo fought a nervous laugh and followed him up, hindered only slightly by her limp and more by nerves.

Sherlock was waiting in the cluttered sitting room with a cornered look on his face. "I know it's a mess, but I've only just moved in a few days ago," he announced. "Obviously things can be tidied, but in any case, there's a spare room upstairs that's small but airy and could be used as a nursery." As he mentioned it one long arm swept up with rehearsed casuality to gesture toward the stairs. "There's space enough for a cot, a toy chest, a bureau, and a rocking chair by the window, if we get creative with the room's arrangement. Now there's only one bedroom downstairs, but I'm always more comfortable on a sofa anyway, I prefer cramped spaces to sleep in, so you're welcome to it, though I would only ask to share closet space.

"I'm a hobby chemist and perform case-related experiments that sometimes require using cadavers parts, though I of course would be considerate of your condition if any of the fumes would be offensive. If it becomes necessary I can either purchase a second fridge or work solely at the morgue in St. Bart's. I keep odd hours and have an odd group of associates that tend to come at odd hours, and if it's really a bother I can raise the fee for my detective services and move my business to the basement flat within three months, give or take a few weeks depending on cases coming in."

It felt rather like someone had boxed Jo in both ears at the same time, there was even a faint humming in her head, in the wake of that impressive tidal-wave of speech that had all been thrown at her in less than thirty seconds. She was well aware of her own gaping, but found herself unable to stop. Both hands clasped behind his back, Sherlock looked like a schoolboy at his first piano recital waiting for praise from his parents and friends. When she realized that he was, in fact, waiting for her to reply, she swallowed thickly. "You've really thought everything through, haven't you?" she asked faintly.

He blinked, embarrassment showing in the barest flicker in the corner of his mouth. "I didn't sleep last night," he replied. "I figured I...might as well." Suddenly his eyes widened. "You have a limp and you walked here rather than taking the bus due to the improved weather. You must be tired; you ought to sit down." She honestly hadn't even noticed her leg hurting or being tired, but sat down in the older chair with the Union Jack cushion anyway because he looked so endearingly concerned. "I could make-"

A knock on the flat's door interrupted him, and Mrs. Hudson came in with a tea tray. "Yoohoo. I thought you two might be busy talking, so brought up some tea and nibbles," she offered, putting the tray on the coffee table. She patted Jo's hand. "You look a bit peaky, love, are you feeling alright?"

Instantly Sherlock was on the alert - were he a dog his ears would be perking up - and Jo felt herself flush. "I'm fine, this is just how my face looks all the time," she dismissed quickly.

"Well, there are ginger biscuits there anyway; they work wonders, I swear-"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said in a clear signal to the landlady, and she made a hasty exit. "I apologize if she embarrasses you; I'm afraid it's my fault. Mrs. Hudson was the only person I thought to speak with about our situation. I've never really done this before."

She smiled quickly, thinking of his website. He probably didn't think it had occurred to her to check that. "Well, thank God for that; I'd be really concerned if you had," she joked, and Sherlock relaxed marginally. "Listen, could you maybe sit down as well?" Almost instantly Sherlock was sitting opposite her in the sleek modern-looking leather armchair, leaning forward on his knees. "I'm really relieved that you've been thinking about things like nurseries, and that you didn't just run the moment you realized who I am. However..." She trailed off, biting her lip as a sudden wave of dizziness made her lose her train of thought. Sherlock furrowed his brow, apparently thinking that she simply was uncomfortable with what she wanted to say.

"Oh," he said softly, like an epiphany, as he leaned back. "I understand. If it's what you want, I can provide money for an abortion."

Jo coughed on the bite of ginger biscuit she'd been stupid enough to try for while she was thinking. "No! No, oh, god, that's not what I meant!" she hurriedly amended, seeing how crestfallen he looked at the notion. It was quickly dawning on Jo that Sherlock was more invested in the pregnancy after one night than she had been for as long as she had known about it. "I just lost my train of thought! Oh, sorry!"

"It's fine," he said with a quick shake of the head. "I've been thinking about this from every angle except that one, and jumped to the wrong conclusion."

Brushing back fringe from her eyes, Jo decisively put her biscuit back on the tray. "Well, I mean I've kept the option open," she corrected herself yet again. "Just in case you weren't...amenable, I guess? Because as much as I would like to have a kid and all, I wouldn't be able to on my own, not right now. It's not even about finances, it's..." She shook her head wearily. "Listen, you ought to know anyway. I've just come back from a war zone with a hole in my shoulder and a psychosomatic limp; on my own, I'm not an appropriate support system for a small child. Social Services would be all over me at the slightest incident. So, I suppose what I'm trying to say is that if I'm going to have this baby I need to know that you'll be there. You're not just offering for us to live here because you feel obligated or guilty; I want you to, I guess, _want_ us here."

There was a very long stretch of silence as Sherlock stared at his knees, lips pursed quietly. Jo tried to be patient, but suddenly she urgently had to pee and was feeling dizzy again. "I'm sorry, can I use the bathroom?" she asked, trying not to distract him from his own train of thought. He pointed her in the right direction and she dove in gratefully, leaning against the sink the same way she had at Mike's. The floor wasn't moving, though, so she figured the dizziness wasn't anything serious. She was feeling queasy again, though, and splashed cold water on her face to try and get her wits together again.

As she was drying her face, Jo heard a heavy set of footsteps come up the stairs to the flat, and a man's voice joined Sherlock's in the sitting room. "There's been another," he said.

"I'm busy," Sherlock dismissed instantly, voice just as cold and hard as it had been at Bart's before she had told him she was pregnant. Did he speak more kindly to her, or was his coldness special treatment for something the second man and Mike had done?

"You're not even interested?"

"No."

"Sherlock, we really could use your input on this one."

"And I really could not care."

With a flood of heat through her body that made her shake, Jo staggered to the toilet just in time to gag up her toast and the ginger biscuit, overly aware of the loudly obscene choking noises that were coming from her throat. The second man asked, "Are you entertaining?" just before the bathroom door swung open. She quickly straightened from where she'd hunched over the toilet and wiped the spit off of her cheek.

Sherlock was watching her from the open door with a look on his face that seemed confused between concerned and annoyed. "Are you alright?" he asked, back to his nervous, gentler voice. A man with salt-and-pepper hair and brown eyes was in the sitting room a way behind him, watching with unguarded interest and urgency.

"I'm fine," she insisted, filling a paper cup with water to rinse her mouth out. "Is everything okay?" She nodded toward the older man, and he waved awkwardly before politely turning his back.

"What, him?" scoffed Sherlock, looking back at the man. "Irrelevant. Just a crime scene, but it's not worth my time right now."

Once she'd spat in the sink, Jo wiped her mouth and straightened to look up at Sherlock. Lord, but he was taller close up. "What, because I'm here? No, if you're needed you ought to go." The other man sighed with relief that she was apparently agreeing with him.

"We're talking, we're talking about something important," Sherlock argued. "If Lestrade is as competent as he always claims to be then he can fare without me." The validity of his argument was instantly contradicted when he bit his lower lip anxiously. Jo felt a smile creep up her face; he wanted to go but felt like he had to stay for her.

To save him from having to feel like he was running out on her, Jo edged past Sherlock out of the bathroom and addressed the man he called Lestrade. "What's going on with the crime scene?" she asked briskly.

Taken aback, Lestrade replied, "Uh, this one left a note."

"A note?"

"It's one of the serial suicides," provided Sherlock, still leaning in the door to the bathroom. "Though you mentioned you've been ill and there's a mark from a hospital bracelet around your wrist - you either only just got out of the hospital or forgot to take it off until recently - so either way you probably missed the press conference. Are you alright, by the way? I feel I ought to ask, considering."

"Considering what?" asked Lestrade.

She and Sherlock simultaneously said, "Nothing," and she continued with, "I'm fine, I had the flu."

"You had the flu? But you're-"

"Yes, I know, I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure, I'm a doctor."

"You're a-?"

"You knew that, Sherlock."

"Oh, yes, that's right. And you're sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all, go ahead."

"Brilliant." Sherlock turned back to Lestrade, whose head had been swiveling between them like a man at a tennis match. "Go on, I'll follow behind in a cab."

Lestrade heaved with a relieved sigh. "Thank you." Nodding once more at Jo, he took his leave.

For approximately three seconds Sherlock was still and silent. Then he jumped in the air - actually jumped - and pumped his fists. "Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note; oh, it's Christmas! Thank you, Joanna, for your understanding, I've been following this case for weeks and have been dying to dig my fingers into this serial killer."

He darted for his coat, and Jo felt a small pang of jealousy in her chest. "Could I...I mean, is there anything I can do to help?" she called after him.

Appearing around the corner, Sherlock replied, "You want to come to the crime scene? You're pregnant."

"I am," she shrugged. "Doesn't mean I'm an invalid."

He seemed to appraise her for a long moment, scanning over her with his eyes. "You are an army doctor," he allowed. She nodded. "Seen a lot of violent deaths, some action."

"Yes," she replied. "You'd think it would be enough for a lifetime, but..." She shrugged again.

"You want to see some more?"

"God, yes."

Sharing wicked grins, they left the flat together. Jo had the feeling things would work out between them.


	3. Chapter 3

"So, I know you're a detective already," began Jo lightly once they were in a cab on their way to...wherever it was. "But what sort of detective are you if you have your own website and have to be asked to crime scenes?"

He peered at her from the corner of his eye, as though trying to feel out whether she was just going to take the mick out of him or not once he said something. Seemingly satisfied after catching her bemused quirk of the eyebrows, he said, "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job." At that he preened slightly. "When the police are out of their depth - which is always - they consult me."

She contemplatively bit her lip. "You're an amateur, then?"

"You already know the answer to that," he replied. "I proved how I knew you were from Afghanistan at the club."

"So prove it again," she smiled. Sherlock was interesting, that much was obvious after knowing him only a few hours and one drunken night, and she wanted to know more about him. "Use my phone." Leaning over for better access, Jo pulled her mobile out of her pocket and passed it over to him.

With a smug tick in the corner of his mouth Sherlock turned the mobile only briefly over in his hands before tucking it into his lap. "You're sure?" he asked. "I don't want you to be angry. Not to mention you shouldn't be put under undue stress until the danger of spontaneous miscarriage has passed-"

He fell quiet under her stern look. "Sherlock, I'm not a daisy petal. Tell me about the damn phone." With that, he seemed to relax and inspected the phone again.

"Your phone is expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you've already mentioned that you're financially unable to support yourself, so why would you spend your precious funds on something as frivolous as this? It's a gift, then. It's been liberally scratched over time, which usually means it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. A conscious woman like yourself wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

The phone flipped over in his hands to reveal the back. "'To Harry, love Clara,' and three x's. Harry Watson is clearly a family member who's given you his old phone after leaving his wife. Harry isn't your father: this is a young man's gadget. The kisses and price of the phone leads me to believe that Clara is - or was - Harry's wife. It could have been a cousin, of course, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Pardon me, but it's unlikely you've got an extended family, and certainly not one you're close to, so brother makes the most sense. Clara must have given it to him recently, as it's only six months old. So the marriage is in trouble, then - six months old, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. Yet you aren't going to him for help, even though he's extended an olive branch. Why is that? It could be you liked his wife, or that you dislike his drinking."

"How do you know about the drinking?" she asked, trying to ignore the frantic beating of her heart. How one man could know so much about her from only a phone was both terrifying and impressive.

Still looking at her as though worried she might react badly, he continued, "There are scuff marks around the power connector - his hands were shaking when he went to plug it in at night. Though, of course, it could just be fumbling in the dark, but even the most clumsy of people would get the feel of it eventually. So, there you go, you were wrong."

"I was?"

"I'm no amateur."

She couldn't help it; Jo burst out laughing and hid her burning face in her hands as Sherlock pouted at her. It was just so surreal. The one man in all of London to find her interesting enough to sleep with and accidentally get her up the duff, and he was some sort of mad genius. She had always had an unusual lucky streak, whether that be in gambling or in arguing with her sister, but this really took the cake. "That was...I just can't believe...I'm in a bit of shock," she laughed, one hand on the flat of her chest. "That was just amazing."

"Was it?"

"Of course it was. It was spectacular," she assured him, and he smiled as he passed her phone back.

To her inquiring look he admitted, "That's not what people usually say."

Confused, she shook her head. "What do they usually say?"

"'Piss off.'"

At first she was appalled, but Sherlock looked so pleased that she _wasn't_ telling him to piss off that she couldn't help snorting. "Well, it takes a lot to get me that angry," she assured him just as the cab was pulling up to a house in...somewhere. She was too embarrassed to ask where they were again. Sherlock climbed lithely out and looked ready to stride right past the caution tape, but at the last moment turned, held the door open, and offered her a hand out. At her pointed look he glanced away and put his hand down, but kept holding the door until she was on her feet and cane in her own time, thanks very much.

"Try to keep in mind that we're going to a crime scene," Sherlock told her as they approached the shady block of empty flats. "It would be unwise to get ill and contaminate it, so if you feel sick say so and I'll make the excuses for you."

"I'll be fine."

He nodded and glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Did I get anything wrong, by the way? I like to check when I can."

For a long moment Jo was loathe to say anything, but finally admitted, "Harry's my sister. Everything else was right, though." Even with her encouragement he spent the rest of the walk to the building cussing himself out over missing the "obvious" fact that Harry was short for Harriet. "It's fine, Sherlock. Everyone assumes Harry's my brother when I forget to mention her full name."

"But _I'm_ not _everyone_," he pouted elegantly. Reaching for the tape cordoning off the crime scene, Sherlock was blocked off by a strikingly beautiful black woman with a radio on her shoulder and a surly look on her face.

"Freak," she greeted sourly. "What do you want?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and adopted a defensive posture almost immediately. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," he gritted out.

"Why?"

"He asked me to come."

"Why?"

"Funnily enough, I think he wants me to have a look around."

"Well you know what _I_ think?"

"Always, Sally. And it's hardly ever interesting enough to warrant my time. Now may I?"

Still glaring as though her life depended on it, Sally twitched the tape in a begrudging signal for him to pass. Something about her screamed out 'angry ex' to Jo, for some reason. When Sherlock tried to hold up the tape for Jo to follow Sally intervened. "Hold on, who's this? You can't come in here." Now she sort of screamed 'jealous angry ex,' though Jo didn't know why anyone would ever be jealous of her.

"This is my colleague, Doctor Watson," lied Sherlock instantly. Jo kept her stare at the intimidating woman neutral, even as she scoffed in disbelief. The tape rose and Jo hobbled underneath, following close to Sherlock as he continued to lie and bicker his way into the building as if he were an old hat. The further they went the more Jo felt as though she weren't supposed to be there until she was suited up, standing over a dead woman's pink-swathed body, and feeling almost indecently excited.

DI Lestrade joined them once again, watching Sherlock closely as he flitted about like an overgrown bat. Apparently he was above the protective suits; Jo wasn't sure if she approved. But then he started talking in that deep voice, dipping and weaving and pulling everything he needed out of that impossibly impressive mind until she could almost see the words in the air before them, plain as day, visible and tangible as her own hand. The woman's ring _was_ clean on the inside but dirty on the outside, her coat _was_ damp under the collar, there _were_ splash-patterns of mud on the back of her leg.

"That's amazing," she blurted out after that steamroller of deductive narrative. Sherlock and Lestrade - right he was still in the room; she'd gotten tunnel-vision on Sherlock while he was talking - stared at her and she flushed. "Sorry, I'll, ah-"

Though she didn't know him well enough to be certain yet, there was a rigidity to Sherlock's face as he said, "No, it's...fine," that made her think he was fighting a pleased smile. Did he never get compliments? She would have to see to that, though at the moment it didn't seem like such a difficult concept. Just to be safe, she smiled back, and he quickly turned so his back was to Lestrade. Once again Jo felt lucky to be in this mess with Sherlock and not someone less savory. She could have ended up with a rapist fathering her child, but instead had brilliant, mad, eccentrically kind Sherlock. Now was about the time in every other relationship that she would find out he was married or something. So far, so good.

With a shout about a suitcase, Sherlock vanished, leaving Jo abandoned at the top of a building with Lestrade crankily shouting after him. Within moments the forensic team had swamped in and Jo was shunted to the side, completely forgotten by all but the DI. He smiled sympathetically and offered to help her down the stairs, what with her cane and all. Irritation swarmed and she politely refused, gripping her cane in one hand and the squeaky railing in the other. Jo hoped that Sherlock had run ahead to get a cab, but sincerely doubted it since he'd been hollering about a suitcase and possibly a skip.

Surely enough, the street outside was empty but for Sally, who she'd heard Sherlock call Sergeant Donovan when he was trying to intimidate her. "He's gone," she said before Jo had a chance to ask. "He left; he does that. You can try the main road if you need a cab home."

Jo nodded politely and tried to shoulder past Donovan, but was stopped again when it was obvious she was being addressed. "You're not his girlfriend or his friend, you know," she called out. Jo turned to face her, bemused. "Sherlock Holmes? He doesn't have friends. He's a psychopath. Do you know why he's here? He doesn't get paid or anything; he likes it. He gets off on it. But you know what? Psychopaths get bored. And someday, being here and poking around in our business just won't be enough. One of these days, we'll all be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there. Mark me on that one. If you've got some sort of idea that if you love him enough you'll fix him, or he'll change for you, just throw that out the window right now. He doesn't listen, and certainly doesn't change. Don't trust Sherlock Holmes." She crossed her arms, confident that her point had been made.

Jo politely said, "I'll, ah, keep that in mind, thanks," and left as quickly as possible. Definitely a jealous ex, then, but she still couldn't manage putting two and two together. Instead, she aimed herself toward the main road and started walking resignedly. It was going to be a long trek home without cab fare. Irritation and anger warred themselves the more she thought about Sherlock leaving without even telling her how to get back or making sure she was capable of getting home, to such an extent that that she didn't hear the telephone ringing until just after she had passed. Then the public phone just inside a convenience store started to ring; Jo only noticed because as soon as an employee went to answer it stopped ringing. She hesitated but didn't come to a full stop. After that she was on a higher alert, and noticed that even the phone in an old broken-down police box had started and stopped ringing as soon as she was out of range. Finally she huffed her way into one of the bloody booths and answered. "Hello?"

_Look to your left._

"What?"

_Look to your left._

Biting her lip, Jo looked to her left. The only thing that stood out among the cars and people was a CCTV camera aimed right at her.

_Now look to your right._

"I don't understand." There was an icy chill in her chest that make her feel sick.

_Look to your right_, the voice repeated firmly. With a deep breath that resonated all through her, she looked to her right to confirm that there was another camera looking at her. As she watched it swiveled and faced another direction. _Now look up, over there._

The third camera wasn't all that surprising, though it made her shiver again. It turned to face the street just as a nondescript black car pulled up to the kerb.

_Get in the car, Doctor Watson. I'm sure you understand the gravity of the situation._

Oh, lovely, she was being kidnapped. It didn't take much a stretch of the mind for Jo to figure out that it was something to do with Sherlock. She'd been kidnapped once before under entirely different circumstances, and was quite certain that the posh man on the other end of the phone line was not a member of a terror cell, though she couldn't eliminate the idea. Instead she resignedly got into the car and found yet another dangerously gorgeous woman waiting for her inside. Was the entire female population of London and her outdated wardrobe conspiring against her?

"So what's this about, then?" she asked, but the woman was intent on her phone. "Fine, thanks, how are you?" Sarcasm usually worked in situations like these, but at the moment was failing. "Who are you?"

The woman considered the question for a moment. "Hm...Anthea," she decided.

Pretty as the name was, Jo couldn't find the energy to be impressed. She was getting that odd competitive feeling again, bit it had different vibes than Donovan's anger. "You just made that up, didn't you?"

"Yep."

"Well, forgive me if I don't tell you mine."

Anthea smirked again. Her eyes never tore away from her Blackberry. "That's fine, Doctor Watson."

Jo fought the urge to reach across the seat and slap her. The whole situation made her feel unspeakably unsettled, even if Anthea's long legs were dredging up memories of several sunlit weeks with the similarly leggy brunette who would later marry her sister.

She was dropped off at the loading dock of an empty warehouse and let in the bay door. The silhouette of a tall man - taller than Sherlock - leaning on an umbrella was standing in a place of prominence, where it would be impossible not to see him. "You know, if you were so desperate for a word with me, you could just call me on _my_ phone," she pointed out archly as she approached the man.

He smiled, sickly-sweet, and used his umbrella to point at a folding chair behind her. "Please have a seat, Doctor Watson, your leg must be bothering you."

"I'll stand, thanks."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

The man smiled again, briefly inspecting the tip of his umbrella before addressing her again. "What is your relationship to Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

Jo tried not to blink as she subtly shifted in place, keeping a pocket of air between her coat and her stomach. It was too soon for anyone but herself to tell, but she wasn't about to take any chances. "I don't know what you mean."

"You met yesterday, got together this evening to look at a flat, and now you're solving crimes together," explained the man blithely. "Should we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

Sweat broke out on the back of her neck and a muscle jumped in her jaw. She had to remind herself that he didn't know. This man didn't know she was pregnant. If she played dumb enough he might let her go. "I don't know what you're talking about," she insisted. "Who are you?"

Another smile. "An interested party. Though Sherlock Holmes would call me an enemy. His arch enemy, in fact." The thought seemed to amuse him. "He does like to be dramatic."

"Well it's a good thing you're above all that," she snapped, looking pointedly around at the empty warehouse and ignoring the answering smirk. "Can you just cut to the chase, please? This is getting a bit tedious."

"Well now, Doctor Watson, what could I possibly say to convince you that I mean well?" asked the man. "I could assist you, you see. You're not very well off, are you?"

She gritted her teeth. "In exchange for what? Information on Sherlock, I assume?"

"Nothing inclusive. Just brief updates on what he's up to, if he's getting to any mischief."

"No."

"I haven't even mentioned a figure yet."

"Still no."

"You're very loyal very fast," he laughed.

She growled back, "I'm not, I just don't like bullies."

With her declaration all went still. The planes of the man's face went rigid and dark. For several moments Jo held her breath, sensing that she'd somehow crossed a line.

"I am no bully," said the man, dangerously calm.

"So why do you want me to spy on Sherlock Holmes?"

The corner of the man's mouth quirked. "I worry about him," he announced, "constantly." Before she could comment on that little snippet of information he waved his other arm - only then did Jo notice he was holding a file folder. "Your therapist says that you have problems with trust, and that your traumatizing experience in the war haunts you. May I have a look at your hand?"

"Why?" she glared, pulling her hand closer on reflex. It flattened against her stomach; the man's eyes narrowed.

"No matter. It's perfectly clear to me," he dismissed, looking down at her from beneath his eyelashes. "You ought to get a new therapist, one who does their job properly. You're under duress but perfectly calm. You aren't haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it." A final, predatory smile stretched across his features in an oddly familiar way. "Welcome back."

Trying to remember how to take a proper breath, Jo spun on her heel and stalked away, leaning heavily on her cane. Anthea was waiting on the pavement beside the same car that had brought her to the warehouse. "I'm meant to take you home," she said.

Jo laughed bitterly to herself and shook her head. "Fine, whatever, but we're bloody well making a stop first."


	4. Chapter 4

On their way back to the bedsit Sherlock texted Jo four times.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH_

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

_However, could be dangerous. SH_

_Maybe don't come after all. SH_

With a half snarl on her face Jo pecked back _I can take care of myself_ and seethed until they got to the bedsit. She told Anthea to wait, then ran upstairs and grabbed her gun. If Sherlock bloody Holmes thought that she was completely useless just because she was pregnant, he had another thing coming.

Sherlock was sprawled across the sofa in 221B when Jo got there, eyes closed and one hand pressed to the crook of his elbow. "What are you doing?" she asked warily.

He snapped his eyes open and steepled his hands under his chin, briefly baring one arm to her with three flesh-toned circles there. "Nicotine patches," he dryly informed her. She could practically hear him rolling his eyes even as she hurried to the window to watch the car drive away. "What are you doing?"

"You left," she muttered from the window. "You abandoned me out there. That's really not on, Sherlock." Her voice was steady, but inside she was shaking.

Sitting abruptly up, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I didn't abandon you; I told you not to come back here tonight."

"After leaving me in bloody Brixton!" she exploded, turning away from the window. "Listen, I understand your work is important, and I've already told you that I can take care of myself, but there's a really big difference between letting me take care of myself and leaving me in bloody Brixton only to be _kidnapped_ by your bloody arch enemy!"

As soon as the last two words slipped from her mouth Sherlock was on his feet. "My what?"

"Arch enemy, he said," repeated Jo with a small huff.

Within moments all of her personal space had been invaded by a lanky detective as he touched bits of her jaw and peered at her oddly. "Did he touch you? At all? Are you hurt?" he asked with concern bleeding from every syllable. When she shook her head he sagged with relief, and made a move that Jo thought was to kiss her forehead but he arrested midway. Instead he turned away and coughed quietly. "Um. Good. I apologize if you were frightened."

She said, "I wasn't frightened," and he turned back to face her. "You weren't?" and she replied with a shake of her head. "I was a soldier, Sherlock. It takes a lot to frighten me." A sudden thought occurred to her. "Oh, by the way, do you have HIV?"

"What?" yelped Sherlock, a surprised flush rising up his face that made Jo want to laugh. "No! Why would you-?"

"I just wanted to be certain!" insisted Jo, holding up her hands and laughing. She sat in the same chair as before, settling her cane to the side and stretching out her leg, which was feeling stiff after so much walking. "Anyway, you said to come, at least before you said not to and I ignored you. What's up?"

Scratching idly at his nicotine patches, Sherlock had turned to the fireplace but turned back to her at the inquiry. "Oh, yes, right. Can you send a text for me? There's always a chance my number will be recognized, as it's on my website." When she raised her eyebrows incredulously, peeved that she'd come all this way just for a text, he added, "I did say you didn't have to come."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but I thought you were just being a prat. Fine, okay, what's the number?"

Sherlock smiled, looking pleasantly surprised, and started rummaging in the space behind his chair. Jo wondered not for the first time that night what made him so taken aback by simple courtesies like compliments or favors. He was a surprising man, both in his behavior and in the way Jo reacted to him. They hardly knew one another aside from the one-night stand that had ultimately stuck them together for good, and by all means and conventions things should be unspeakably awkward between them, but Jo felt oddly at ease with the detective around. She didn't have to pretend to be someone she wasn't to get his approval. For some reason, Sherlock seemed to like her for who she was. Unless of course he was only pretending to be interested because of the baby.

After what was only really a moment Sherlock came back with a pink overnight case in hand, and started reading off a number from the address tag. Jo typed it quickly into her mobile. "Send 'What happened in Lauriston Gardens? I must have passed out. 22 Northumberland-'"

"You passed out?" Jo asked, distracted from her typing as her inner doctor sniffed the air.

He looked up from the tag with a scowl. "What? No! Come on, 22 Northumberland Street and send it!" With a flick of the wrist he sent the case careening back to its place. "Have you sent it?"

"Yeah, hang on!" she snapped back, hitting the 'SEND' button just then. Still sticking her tongue out in concentration, she looked up and composed herself. "Alright, care to explain?"

"There wasn't a mobile in Jennifer Wilson's case," he said, sinking into the chair opposite. "We've already established that she had a string of lovers, and therefore would need a secure way to communicate with them all without her husband knowing. The killer had to get rid of her lurid pink case, and she didn't have her mobile on her at the crime scene, so...?"

Comprehension dawned just as Jo's phone started ringing and her heart rate increased. "The killer has the phone," she said numbly. "Did I just text a serial killer? Oh, _good_, well now what, shall I answer it?" Yes, there was a bit of sarcasm in the last question, but Jo felt it was justified.

"No," ordered Sherlock. "No, don't answer. We've got him scared now. He thinks he's made a mistake." He sighed and looked down. "Joanna, I really am sorry about earlier. Let me make it up to you; are you hungry? I know an excellent place nearby."

"But I've just sat-!"

"I insist!" boomed Sherlock, pulling her easily from her chair, placing her cane in hand as though she were a doll. "Do you like Italian?"

Before Jo knew what was going on she had been ushered back out the door and into a cab that smelled faintly of cabbage. The ride only lasted about five minutes before they were clambering out, Sherlock looking sheepish as she gave him an inquiring look; he'd noticed she was tired and hadn't wanted to make her walk. He asked for his usual table from the boy at the door, and exchanged pleasantries with the owner while Jo blushed and stammered that they weren't actually on a date - even as he was retreating to fetch a candle and make the table "more romantic." For some reason that made Jo want to apologize, even if it wasn't her fault; Sherlock was gorgeous and she was unutterably plain.

Almost as soon as they had their waters (and their candle) Sherlock was twisting round in his chair to watch the building across the street. If Jo had to take a stab, she'd guess 22 Northumberland. With one spidery pale hand he pushed his menu aside and told her to order whatever she wanted.

"You aren't eating?" she asked.

"What day is it?"

"Wednesday."

He shook his head. "I'll be fine for a few days yet."

"Sherlock!" she laughed incredulously. "You need to eat!"

"I never eat on cases, it slows me down; I just wrapped up one case yesterday and Mrs. Hudson made risotto - I'm fine," insisted Sherlock before turning back to the window.

Jo shrugged, taking a sip of water before muttering, "I mean, if _I_ were to stop eating just because _I_ was busy..."

"That's completely different, you're pregnant, you're supposed to be eating for two or some rubbish," argued Sherlock without tearing his eyes away from the window, but there was a shadow of alarm on his face.

"Human beings need to eat whether they're pregnant or not. Honestly, does no one look after you?"

"I don't need a keeper," Sherlock snapped, keeping his voice low. Jo's face burned but she didn't change her expression, murmuring an apology to which he nodded. Then he sighed slightly. "But Mrs. Hudson does like to hover, I suppose; for some reason she's taken a liking to me. And, well..." He shifted slightly, looking uncomfortably vulnerable for a split-second. "I suppose if you decide to move in, we'll be looking after each other. Though I completely understand if you've changed your mind and would rather abort after the fiasco earlier," he added hurriedly, staring determinedly out the window still as traffic passed.

Jo shook her head, fighting the urge to touch his hand, offer comfort, to the point of her whole arm twitching slightly. "I told you, it takes a lot to scare me off," she assured him. He relaxed fractionally, glancing back at her, and she smiled. "Sherlock, I like you, God help me. I'd like to live with you if we're going to go through with this whole mess together. But you still haven't actually said if you want me around or just feel obligated, and even if you keep being perfectly nice I'd like to hear it directly." She took another sip of water to cover for her steady hand.

Sherlock shifted again, brow furrowed with thought. "Joanna, I -" he began, only to be cut off when Angelo came sidling up to take their order. Jo stared pointedly at Sherlock until he blindly picked something off the menu (Angelo looked shocked and pleased) and she asked for plain noodles and garlic bread.

"Pregnancy's tricky, and I've just spent a week laid-up with the flu," she explained in response to the detective's bemused look. "I don't want to get something that will set my stomach off in a public place, thanks." The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched almost fondly, and he turned to the window once more, their previous conversation forgotten. She leaned in toward him, hoping to keep the conversation going a bit longer. "I think it's going to be a boy, though it's hard to say at this stage."

That surprisingly did it; she could practically see the gears in Sherlock's head turning. "It's a fifty percent chance," he pointed out.

"Then I'll bet you fifty pence I'm right."

"Just fifty pence?"

"Well, I don't want to risk my chances," she grinned. "I'll explain my reasoning, shall I? When pregnant with a boy the mother tends to burn 2,000 more calories a day, eating and sleeping almost twice as much as with a girl. Now, I was only having symptoms for about a week or so before getting sick, so I know it's not exactly easy to tell with my health compromised, but..." She shrugged, smiling.

"We'll have to wait and see," agreed Sherlock with a stronger hint of a smile around the corners of his eyes. They shook on it, just to be funny, before Sherlock's attention was again stolen by the window. This time Jo let it rest, idly playing with her silverware until Angelo brought their food and started telling a story about way back when he was a waiter and his parents owned the restaurant; Sherlock's parents liked to frequent there with their boys, so Angelo had known Sherlock since he was just a wee baby. "Looked like a potato sausage, he did!"

"Yes, thank you Angelo," scowled Sherlock into his water glass. Jo snorted. The man left them in peace once satisfied he'd sufficiently embarrassed Sherlock in front of his "date" to the fullest extent. Sherlock took all of three bites of his meal before looking out the window again, staring down a cab sitting at the kerb.

Jo leaned across the table to try to see what he was looking at. "What's up?"

"Cab."

"What about it?"

"No idea, something clever. Is it clever? Why's it clever?"

"Oh, alright then."

"Don't stare."

"Why not? You're staring."

"Well we can't _both_ stare."

She huffed and sat back, petulantly tearing off a bit of bread with her teeth. "You aren't secretly married or something, are you?" she asked blithely after a few moments.

"I consider myself married to my work," he replied absentmindedly.

"Yeah, that's no secret," she teased, watching him watch the cab. It was hard not to feel her heart drop a bit behind the humor, though, knowing that lack of anything past a friendly relationship would make it infinitely easier to drift apart over a pregnancy, even if they both were invested from the start.

Suddenly Sherlock stiffened in his seat. "He just looked back at me," he breathed, and leapt to his feet. "This is it, this is my chance, and I've got to take it. Don't worry about the ticket, it's taken care of. We can meet again after oh I'm doing it again, aren't I?" he derailed, staring down at Jo with his coat half-on.

"You bet," she nodded succinctly, then jumped up after him.

They careened into the street, Sherlock nearly getting himself hit by a car, just as the cab drove off. Sherlock cursed, thought for a few moments with hands pressed to his temples, then looked down at her. "You'll be alright with a bit of running?"

"Oh, get on with it!"

And so they did. Sherlock seemed to have the entire schematic map of London stored in his massive brain, shouting directions over his shoulder at her because, like it or not, Jo couldn't seem to keep up. She personally blamed her shorter legs and lack of training since being invalided home rather than the pregnancy, though was certain that Sherlock would have his own opinion on the matter. Once the frantic chase had been proved fruitless by the Californian, however, the jog home was all too easy in way of keeping up with the lanky man.

The need for oxygen was the only thing that kept them from cracking up until they were safely in the foyer of 221B. Then Jo started laughing at the incredulity of the situation and couldn't stop. "That was - the most ridiculous - thing - I've ever done," she gasped, nearly dizzy with the endorphin rush.

Sherlock looked at her with eyebrows raised and a quiver in his smile. "_Really?_" he replied with a pointed look to her abdomen. They both practically doubled over as they burst out laughing at that.

"That-that wasn't just me, I hope you remember."

"Oh, I remember."

There was something in his voice that made Jo look up, and next she knew her back was pressed against the wall and Sherlock pressed against her. They were both still breathless, huffing small puffs of silent laughter against one another's cheeks as he brushed two fingers whisper-light over her jaw, leaning down close to rub the tip of his nose along the length of hers before kissing her gently. The curl of his pretty lips against her thin ones, gently catching her lower lip between them and sucking as softly as an afterthought, was the polar opposite of the fuck-like-the-world-was-ending they'd had eight weeks before. It took her breath away, and she reached up to cup the back of his neck even as he was drawing back. She mewled softly in protest and he sighed a laugh against her lips.

"Don't want to be caught doing something indecent in the front hall with the man at the door," he murmured in apology, pressing his forehead to hers with eyes shut tight as she caught her breath from even the brief kiss.

"Man at the-?"

_Knock-knock-knock_.

She chuckled in disbelief as Sherlock somewhat miraculously disentangled their entwined legs, then ushered _her_ over to answer the door. "Sherlock!" she laughed like a teenager, running her hands through her hair even though he hadn't touched it before opening the door to- "Angelo?"

The older man beamed and held out her cane. "Sherlock texted me, said you left this at your table."

Shock resounded so thoroughly through Jo she thought she might fall over as she took the cane in hand with numb fingers. She hadn't even noticed that the entire time they were running, her leg had been fine. More than fine, it was perfect. There was no pain, no stiffness...nothing. "I, ah...thanks," she stammered. "_Thank you_." Then she laughed again, and Angelo left with a grin on his face and a spring in his step. "Sherlock," she called over her shoulder, turning back down the corridor to where they'd landed in a heap.

The detective was watching her with a half-smile resting confidently on his face, hands tucked into pockets; she tossed the cane aside and pulled his smug face down to kiss him again, not afraid to get inventive with this one, running a deft tongue over his lower lip to get him to open up for her. He tasted like tangy-sweet sweat and very faintly of cigarette smoke, like the home of someone who had quit the nasty habit years ago but the smell still lingered in the sofa cushions. He hunched over to meet her, both hands framing her face, until finally grumbling about "_So - bloody - short_," while grabbing her arse in both hands, hauling her up, turning in place and pressing her back against the wall with both legs around his waist.

They started snogging like teenagers with him squeezing her bum and her licking and biting along his dangerously long neck. The only thing that prevented them outright rutting against one another through their trousers was when they heard a loud thump on the floor above them. Breaking apart and gasping, they both looked up and Jo slid to the floor, heart pounding painfully in her ears and between her legs. "Mrs. Hudson, are you upstairs?" called Sherlock, and the landlady came shuffling out of her own flat sniffling back tears. "Mrs. Hudson?"

Without waiting for her to answer Sherlock and Jo vaulted up the stairs to 221B, all thoughts of sex and frivolity forgotten when they opened the door and found a swarm of police officers rummaging through the flat without regard. Even as they stepped in with their mouths gaping open with shock and anger an officer accidentally knocked over a stack of books. In the center of it all DI Lestrade was dramatically lounged back in Sherlock's chair. "Welcome home," he smiled cheekily.

"What the hell is this?" demanded Sherlock. "You've broken into my flat?"

"Don't worry yourself about it," Lestrade smoothly said. "You think I didn't know you'd withhold evidence to prove you're clever?"

Even as he spoke anderson strode into the main room with a smug look and Jennifer Wilson's case. "Well, look what we have here," he sneered. "Seems we've found our evidence in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, you insufferable twat, I'm a high-functioning sociopath; do your research," Sherlock snapped back just as Donovan came in with a disgusted look on her face. "Put those back in the microwave, Donovan, they're an experiment!" Then he turned back to Lestrade. "What the hell makes you think you can just break into my flat like this?"

The DI shrugged his shoulders casually and glanced around. "This isn't breaking in, we've got all the paperwork - it's a drugs bust."

Jo felt like she'd been slapped in the face as the flurry of activity continued around her, undisturbed. "What?" she asked faintly. But she didn't really need to ask to realize how stupid she'd been; it was all so glaringly obvious. The night she and Sherlock met at the Vesuvius Club, hadn't he been high as a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide? Pale, clammy, stammering, pupils blown wide, she'd assumed he'd been on a one-night bender like her, but for the next six weeks his website had been shut down while "_my brother has locked me up (again)_."

_(again)._

Horror and anger intermingled with one another as she looked up at Sherlock, who was sputtering wordlessly with rage at Lestrade. "You're a _junkie_," she exclaimed.

Sherlock turned to her with eyes wide. "I'm clean," he said numbly, turning back to Lestrade. "Dammit, I've told you I'm clean! Joanna..." He grasped her arm and pulled her to the side where they could speak in relative privacy. "Joanna, I swear -"

"I mean, _Jesus_, you could have said something," she spat at him. "Maybe around the time I asked if you had HIV or were married, you could have said something? Then I wouldn't have wasted my time running through hoops halfway across the city for you!"

He leaned in closer, breathing fast. "Joanna, I _may_ have been a junkie, but I'm clean now! Lestrade is just doing this to be a bully - I promise that I am _never_ going near any of that again."

_(again)._

"Is that what you said to your brother the last time he locked you up in rehab?" she shot back, and he quieted. That was all she needed to shake her head and head for the door.

"Joanna, this is just a farce!"

Lestrade called imperiously from his chair, "It stops being a farce when we find something, you know."

She turned on her heel at the bottom of the stairs when she heard Sherlock's footsteps thundering down after her. "_Don't follow me_," she snarled, and he stopped. "I mean it, Sherlock, don't you _dare_ follow me. I am going home, and if you feel like being honest with me in the next two weeks then you can just use your big fat genius head to find me!" After a moment's hesitation Sherlock seemed to deflate; he nodded somberly and let her go. Her whole body was trembling with barely-contained anger. God, she'd been so _stupid!_

Mrs. Hudson stopped her at the door. "Joanna, dear, could you pop back up and tell Sherlock his cab's here?"

"He didn't call for a cab, Mrs. Hudson," sighed Jo, "but don't worry; I'll take it instead."


	5. Chapter 5

Jo was still stunned and seething as she climbed into the cab and explained that Mister Holmes would not be needing their services any longer, and could he please take her home instead? She felt positively sick with anger and betrayal as it sank in that she had been about to move in and have a child with a drugs addict. It was one thing if he had been honest with her and told her he was going to meetings or something like that, but he'd flat-out pretended it had never happened and that there was nothing to worry about. She'd just been so taken with him so quickly that it hadn't even occurred to her to ask whether or not his being high at the club was a frequent occurrence, so relieved had she been that she wasn't having a baby with a rapist.

Sighing despairingly to herself and leaning against the window, Jo closed her eyes and started thinking over her options, back to square one. Obviously she was going to have to take some sort of measures about the pregnancy if Sherlock wasn't going to clean up his act, though whether she was going to terminate or adopt was now more prevalent than simply termination. She'd been thinking too positively all day - well, night - and considering the baby a definitive outcome, and now that things were getting tough she didn't want to consider aborting any longer, now that it was real in her mind rather than an inconvenient blip. Maybe she could find a family who was willing to pay for her medical care in exchange for a healthy baby.

Only when she opened her eyes and realized they were going in the exact opposite direction of the bedsit did Jo start to worry. "Excuse me," she called to the driver. "Excuse me, but where are we going? This isn't the right way."

The cab driver chuckled to himself. "No, it ain't," he said, "imagine that." Then he took a right and started whistling.

Jo's heart started pounding in her ears, because oh, _God_, it all made sense suddenly why they had been chasing a cab with a Californian in it. Jennifer Wilson and the other victims had all been from out of town or in unfamiliar areas. And they all had last been seen or heard from while getting into a cab. Christ, kidnapped twice in one night. It was like she was going for a new record or something.

Forgetting her anger for the time being, Jo slowly reached into her pocket and closed her hand around her mobile, staring determinedly at the photograph of the cabbie's kids so he wouldn't suspect her of doing anything fishy, then used the texts Sherlock had sent her to call his mobile. She dialed down the volume so if Sherlock started shouting it wouldn't be heard. "So, this is how you got your victims," she said firmly once she guessed that Sherlock had answered. "You just...pick them up. How clever."

The cabbie's eyes flashed at her in the rearview mirror. "Worked on you, didn't it?" he sneered.

"And how did you get them to stay in one place when you finally stopped somewhere?"

"You'll have to wait and see, now."

Apprehension warred with irritation as Jo was rendered virtually helpless but for the mobile in her pocket. She rolled her eyes, just for the hell of it.

* * *

With a barely-constrained sigh of relief, Sherlock pulled his ringing mobile out of his pocket and saw that Joanna was calling him. Good. Perhaps he would get a chance to...well, he didn't know. He answered with a flick of his wrist. "Hello?"

_So, this is how you get your victims. You just...pick them up. How clever._

_Worked on you, didn't it?_

Sherlock felt his stomach drop to a region somewhere between his ankles, even as the flat continued in chaos all around him. "Lestrade," he said, keeping the phone pressed to his ear as the cabbie said _You'll have to wait and see, now_, but the DI wasn't listening at the moment. "_Lestrade_."

"What?" he asked, finally turning away from whatever Donovan was muttering about.

"Tap my phone."

"Oh, is it Christmas already?"

"_Shut up!_" he shouted over the scattered laughter around the flat. "Shut up, all of you! The serial killer, the one who got Jennifer Wilson and three others to commit suicide, has Joanna!" Yes, that shut them up nicely. "She's called me on her mobile, but I don't know how long she can go undetected. I need you to trace the call to wherever they're going."

Gaping openly, Lestrade took a moment to process the information. "Joanna, the woman I met earlier this evening?"

"Yes! I'm assuming the cab was a trap meant for me, but Joanna was angry and probably took it out of spite. Now can we get a move on, please? I have some equipment in the bedroom if you're lacking."

* * *

Jo continued to make truly asinine observations of her surroundings aloud as the cab wound its way through the city, saying street names when she could, spouting landmarks such as "Oh god, the Princeton bakery, I know the owner's son," with the feigned hysteria of a desperate woman in what she believed were her last minutes. The cabbie largely ignored her continuing to whistle to himself. "How did you find me?"

His tiny eyes flickered at her again. "Well, to be honest, I wasn't looking for you. But you'll do just as well, anyway. I could use the practice."

"What, before you go after Sherlock?" she countered, and he laughed.

"You really think you're clever, don't you?" he asked, turning them down a side street she had never seen before. Though Jo noticed that no matter how many odd turns he took, they were continuously heading in the same direction. "Well, that's alright. I may not look it, but I'm cleverer."

She swallowed, though wasn't allowing herself to panic quite yet. Instead she looked around the cab, trying to find some information that Sherlock would find useful if he could hear her. "Are those your kids?"

"Is it your business?"

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Briefly wetting her lips, Jo continued her prying. "You seem pretty defensive when it comes to your kids. And it looks like their mother's been torn out of the photograph of them. You don't get to see them often, do you? Why is that?" She paused, hoping perhaps he would answer, but when he didn't ploughed on in a firmer voice. "Was Mum your first victim?"

The cabbie swerved violently into the oncoming lane until they were within seconds of an obviously-fatal crash, only moving back when Jo screamed. "Now you shut up!" he shouted at her, sounding for all the world like a father reprimanding his daughter. "I mean it; I'm not afraid to drive right off a bridge or into a lorry, cut our little chat short, you hear me?"

Satisfied, Jo leaned back against the seat and crossed her arms. "Perfectly," she replied, gears beginning to turn.

* * *

Sherlock had managed to tap his phone and open up the speakers for Lestrade and Donovan - the only remaining officers in the flat - to listen while his worked on tracking Joanna's location only moments before she let out a scream of "_NO!_" and tires squealed on pavement. He grimaced to himself before looking up at the officers' alarmed faces.

_Now you shut up! I mean it; I'm not afraid to drive right off a bridge of into a lorry, cut our little chat short, you hear me?_

Joanna's voice didn't shake as she replied, _Perfectly._

The signal sent from Joanna's phone finally stopped nearly halfway across the city; the only way Sherlock knew Joanna's mobile hadn't been discovered and flung out the window was that he could hear her clothes rustling around it. The traffic noises faded and died. _Where are we?_ asked Joanna, her voice grainy and muffled. Sherlock and his unlikely company tensed.

_You can read, can't you?_ retorted the cabbie.

The sound of shifting clothes, then: _Roland-Kerr Further Education College?_

As the cabbie made a sound of confirmation Sherlock, Lestrade, and Donovan leapt up, disconnecting his mobile from the tap but keeping the speakers open to keep aware of what was happening. They didn't dare speak as they ran to Lestrade's car.

_You seem a bit old to be the bash-them-on-the-head-and-drag-them-in type_, observed Joanna. _How do you get the people to leave the cab? Drug them into complacency and just walk them in like a dog on a leash?_

"Keep the siren off," Sherlock warned from the back seat, holding the mobile between the three of them just before Lestrade started the car. The DI nodded but kept the lights flashing.

The cabbie's voice was clearer now that they'd stopped driving. _I don't need to drug them, Miss Watson,_ he said, _though they all take their medicine in the end._

_You know, if you want to really scare me, by all means, keep it up with the one-liners._ Joanna gave a small gasp, then paused for a long moment while Sherlock felt his pulse pick up speed. _Alright, I'll give the gun a nine for effectiveness, but a two for creativity,_ she sighed.

Donovan was on her radio before either man could say a word. "Armed kidnapping and possible assault at Roland Kerr Further Ed., one car en route requesting backup and a cautionary ambulance; please refrain from using sirens and turn off all lights prior to arrival on scene."

_How do you know my name?_

_You know Sherlock Holmes; it's my business to know your name._

Sherlock hold himself very still as Donovan looked back at him.

_Alright...why is it your business?_

_Well it certainly ain't yours._

_Give a dying girl a break; who am I going to tell?_ Joanna goaded.

The cabbie laughed quietly. _Sherlock Holmes has got himself a fan,_ he explained. _Holmes has been on my radar for weeks now; I've been watching and waiting._

_So why kill me if I only just met him yesterday?_ asked Joanna, her voice showing the first small sign of strain.

A door swung open and two chairs scraped along a linoleum floor. _Now we both know that's not true._

Sherlock swallowed as Donovan's eyes flickered to him again.

* * *

"Now we both know that's not true," sneered the cabbie, leaning toward her across the table. They'd taken refuge in an empty classroom. "I saw you that night at the club. I saw you both. Know how?"

Swallowing past the sudden sandpaper texture of her throat, she shook her head. The cabbie smiled. "We took your cab," she rasped.

"Nope, try again."

She very suddenly wasn't acting anymore as she felt a deep wave of revulsion creeping up her throat like bile. It was like seeing a film and thinking you understood it until weeks later someone told you an entirely different story. "You were following him."

"Good, Miss Watson," he praised like a primary school head teacher. "He's cleverer that I thought, our Sherlock Holmes. And his tolerance levels are frankly spectacular, I'll give him that, but the short-term memory side-effect worked in my favor." As Jo's mouth fell open in naked shock he laughed. "Oh, you should see your face right now. Finally putting it together, you are, and that's my favorite part. The 'Epiphany Moment,' I call it. The moment someone realizes 'this is it. No matter what I do or say, I'm not going to win.' That's when they stop fighting, you see. They try, and try, but never get it, and realize they won't, and so just give up. You're all such idiots, so ordinary, which makes me wonder: What is it he saw in _you?_" His eyes narrowed as though she had personally wronged him.

"I don't know," she admitted.

"Because Sherlock Holmes doesn't just sleep around with random women," continued the cabbie as if she had never spoken. "He just doesn't. What's so special about you?"

"I already said I don't know," Jo repeated, feeling her face heat and clenching her hands into fists under the table.

The cabbie sat upright again, regarding her with strong distaste. In return, Jo tried to look at him the way Sherlock would, finding things out, but couldn't do anything past her medical eye. She had learned a lot about empathy in her years in med school and the army. Even as she watched his shoulders tried to slump but he held them back; the photo of his kids in the cab was wrinkled and faded with age and care; he'd cut his own hair and his clothes were old; he'd driven into oncoming traffic with abandon and had erratic mood swings.

"When did you get your prognosis?" she asked softly. He shifted in his seat and she knew she'd hit the nail on the head. "I'm a doctor. I know people who can get you into medical trials, maybe even make it easier to see your kids more often. I can help you, if you just don't kill me."

Slowly, agonizingly so, he smiled and pulled a small bottle - containing a nondescript white pill - from each pocket of his jumper. "I'm not gonna kill you, Miss Watson," he said. "You're going to kill yourself."

* * *

_One good pill, one bad pill, it's as simple as that,_ the cabbie continued to say even as Sherlock released a litany of swear words worthy of making a sailor blush. Lestrade had just taken the completely wrong turn down a one-way street and added at least another five minutes to their travel time. While Donovan cussed out the DI from the passenger seat Sherlock pressed the phone closer to his ear, feeling his pulse elevate even further. At least while they'd been talking he'd been able to calm down, but now things were escalating.

"It's chance," he murmured to himself. "It's a fifty percent chance."

_It's just a fifty percent chance_, Joanna said, and Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding.

_No, this is much cleverer than that._

"No it isn't."

_No, it isn't._

It's chess. It's chess with only one move. Now...did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill?

It doesn't matter, you can't make me take it.

Can't I?

"No, you can't," he breathed.

_No, you can't._

_What about now?_

Sherlock was more than certain that the cabbie had pulled out his gun again, if only due to the long silence.

_Make your pick. Take a pill, or take the gun._

Being right had never been so unpleasant before.

_I'll take the gun._

_"What?_" the three of them in the car all shouted at once. Were it any other situation, it might have been comical. Lestrade took a hard left and they all held on tight as the tires squealed on pavement. "Nearly there," said the DI.

_Are you sure?_

_Positive. The gun, please._

_There's no going back, you know._

_I said the gun._

_This is your last-_

_Oh, get on with it!_

There was a click, Sherlock slammed his eyes shut as a wave of nausea rolled over him, and then silence. No gunshot.

When Joanna next spoke, her voice was hard. _Don't you_ dare

_treat me like an idiot. I was a soldier, and I know what a real gun looks like. Now tell me about Sherlock's little fan, the one who hired you. Why? For your kids? Let me guess, there's a little savings account set up for them after you die, and every time someone commits suicide by poison the amount bumps up by a few dozen thousand pounds. Is that it?_

_You think you're so clever._

_I'm cleverer than you thought, aren't I?_ She was openly mocking him now. _People are surprising like that. They're clever even when they don't know it, and kind when they don't want to be, and willing to kill innocent people for their own selfishness. I am_ really _going to look forward to your court case._

With another scrape, Sherlock could practically see Joanna sliding her chair back from the table and getting up with her head held high. He almost smiled to himself until he saw Donovan watching. But it seemed the cabbie wasn't done making his case.

_You are cleverer than I thought. But I know you, Jo. My employer's given me plenty of information on you. You'll play the game; the temptation's too great. And you know why?_

_Wha-...why?_

_Because even if you lose, you'll win, won't you? No more nightmares, no more fear, no more bullies...it'd be nice just to lie down and sleep awhile, wouldn't it?_

Lestrade took another hard turn, speeding up as he sensed the sudden urgency in the situation, and Joanna's voice shook slightly. _I don't want to kill myself anymore._

_That so? Why?_

_I have someone to live for now._

The cabbie outright laughed. _Who, Sherlock Holmes? Special as you might think you are-_

_No, not Sherlock Holmes, though I think I understand him a bit better now_, Joanna replied, voice growing stronger. _I'm pregnant. And I don't want to die._

_"What?_" Donovan shrieked, twisting round in her seat to look at Sherlock, who was staring hard at his mobile. Lestrade had his mouth knitted tightly shut and was staring at the road only because he was on a busy street and didn't want to get into an accident.

Sherlock snapped back, "Never you mind! Check on the backup!" before turning his attention back to his phone.

_Who knows?_

_Just a few people. A friend, and Sherlock._

_Well, then it'll be easy to understand why you'd kill yourself. You haven't been close to your friends for years, and Holmes doesn't know you at all._

_They would know I was trapped into it._

_Are you sure? Think about it._

_I have._

_No, really think about it. You don't want a kid, Jo. You'll just screw it up. Look at yourself: been small all your life, stocky, unattractive, unwanted, unnecessary, the only thing that ever made you feel right in your own skin was the army, and now that's gone too. No one wants you._

_Shut up._

_Look at your family. Look at your sister. Even as a drunk she's happier than you, more successful, more money, more friends, more love while you work and work and do you ever get thanked? Doctors are expected to do their jobs and soldiers are scorned, more often than not. Why would anyone love you while your sister's around?_

_That isn't - that isn't true._

_What about your mum?_

_Shut up._

_What happened to your mum, Jo? Why doesn't she love you anymore?_

_I said shut up!_

_And let's not start on what Daddy did, eh Jo?_

The three of them in the car jumped at the boom that shot out of the phone, accompanied by two screams, and Lestrade only just kept the car under control. On the other line, Jo's breathing was shaky and her clothes rustled violently as she pulled her mobile out of her pocket.

_Someone shot the cabbie_, she said calmly before the phone clattered against the floor. The cabbie was moaning and crying in pain; he let out a scream and Joanna hushed him. _Stop struggling, I have to put pressure on it_, she said soothingly. _Listen to me, listen to me. Someone shot you. If I had to wager a guess, I'd say it was your employer getting sick of you screwing up. Letting Sherlock get away twice? Now, I don't claim to know anything about your business, but I have a feeling that if you live and we don't find this guy, your kids are going to be in a lot of trouble. You need to tell me his name so we can find him and keep your kids safe, do you hear me? It's okay, I swear, it's going to be alright._

The cabbie moaned something incoherent and fell silent, far too silent to still be alive. Joanna sighed and picked up the phone. _Sherlock?_

"Are you all right?" he replied instantly, turning off his phone's speakers and pressing it against his ear. "Are you hurt?"

_No, I'm fine_, she replied, sounding about twenty years older. _The cabbie died. I tried to save him._

To Lestrade's inquiring look he nodded, assuring him that Joanna was unhurt. He could see flashing lights in the distance; they were getting close. Donovan called off the armed reinforcements but confirmed the need for an ambulance. "I know you did. We're nearly there; what room are you in?"

_Um...third floor, I...I don't know, I think I'm going to be sick, I need to-_ The phone hit the floor again and Joanna's footsteps faded out just as they pulled into the lot of Roland-Kerr. The only vehicle in the lot was an empty cab, until the back-up officers and ambulance started pulling in. Sherlock leapt out of the car and sprinted to the building with Lestrade calling after him to wait until they'd cordoned off the crime scene, but of course he wasn't listening.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock found Joanna in one of the bathroom stalls, hastily shoving a gun into one of the metal bins for sanitary napkins, covered in blood up to her elbows. There were also smears of red in her hair and on her cheek, as though she'd pushed it back and forgotten about the mess. She barely glanced up at him until he carefully wrapped his hand in toilet tissue, plucked the gun from the bin, and stuck it in his coat pocket. "We need to wash off the powder burns," he said softly.

"I know." She allowed him to pull her upright and to the sink, calm enough to be strange but not as calm as someone in shock. Her hands were steady as Sherlock pulled them under the tap and stepped back so she could take care of herself. She smiled shakily up at him and asked him to get her some soap.

As he watched her wash, Sherlock felt something strange and foreign settle in the pit of his stomach that he slowly identified as relief. The entire time he was listening to Jo and the cabbie, he had been terrified out of his mind, wound up so tightly that if properly manipulated he could have flown away. He wanted to touch her again, reassure himself that she was alright, that she was still alive, even though the evidence was right before his eyes. Simply seeing wasn't the same as touching, smelling, tasting, holding... "I was worried about you," he admitted in a low voice.

Joanna looked up at him through dripping eyelashes. "Why, because I'm pregnant?"

"No, oddly enough, because you'd been kidnapped by a serial killer who had already proven himself very clever and dangerous," he retorted. "Though I suppose it could have been, ah, that, as well." She made a soft sound reminiscent of laughter and shook her head, short hair swinging heavily where she'd wetted it.

Lestrade knocked on the door before pushing it open. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

"I'm okay," dismissed Joanna again, though there was a convincing tremor in her voice that even had Sherlock feeling confused, as she'd been perfectly composed only moments ago.

Nodding, the DI bit his lip. "Look, I know it's weird, but we're going to, uh, need your jacket. Evidence, and all that. The guys in the ambulance want to have a look at you too, make sure you aren't going into shock."

"Yeah, alright, just give me a second?"

"Take your time."

Once he was gone and they were certain they were alone, Joanna reached out and tugged the end of Sherlock's coat sleeve between two fingers, obviously preparing herself mentally. "Listen, Sherlock," she started awkwardly. "I'm sorry I didn't listen, earlier. I was - well - it's just been a weird day."

"It wasn't your fault," his mouth replied, leaving his brain in the dust. "Anyone would have made the same assumption. But I want you to know that, that night, at the club, I saw you and I read your story in you, and I wanted to know you better. You're interesting, and I would be very amenable to the idea of, ah-"

"Sherlock," she interrupted, "are you trying to say you want me around?"

He nodded, suddenly feeling shaky and uncertain. Was it possible to have heart palpitations when trying to discuss such mundane things as desire? "I went to rehab voluntarily, this last time," his mouth continued. "The other three, my brother had had to drag me in, but it's been nearly two years and I didn't want to fall back into temptation by trying to get through it myself. It wasn't fun anymore," he finished lamely.

Joanna smiled crookedly at him. "I can imagine. But, well, I ought to go down. I'll call you?"

"I can wait. There's a Chinese place on the end of Baker Street; I'm afraid I cheated you out of a meal earlier, and-"

"Can we do takeaway?" asked Jo before he could start stammering again. "It's just that I'm really tired and would like to turn in while it's still dark out, you know."

Again he nodded, feeling his heart start to race again as another thought occurred to him. As Jo was turning away to leave the room he called after her, but he was speaking so quickly that even he had no idea what he said. She turned back and he cleared his throat. "You could-you could stay at Baker Street tonight," he offered. "It's nearer than the bedsit." Then he stuck his hands in his pockets, jerking slightly when he encountered the gun.

"That would be good," she agreed, looking almost annoyingly amused. "See you downstairs."

"Yes."

The door swung shut and Sherlock was left alone. He didn't like it.

* * *

four weeks later

* * *

"That's it," announced Jo, ticking off the day on the calendar. "Three months. I'm officially up the duff." She turned around the look at Sherlock, who was draped messily across the sofa.

He angled his head toward her and murmured, "Oh, _good_," without opening his eyes. "I was worried you were _faking_ being up sick half the night and throwing away my experiments because they smell _purple_." As she made a sound of mock-outrage he smirked and opened his eyes. "Oh, I'm joking. Though that last one was important."

"_You_ said you'd get a second fridge," she retorted, getting up from the kitchen table to drop onto the sofa alongside him. "And I'm only up sick half the night because you've got my schedule all screwy on cases. Nap?" Before he could answer she had burrowed her face into his shirt and shut her eyes, breathing deep. Sherlock put an arm around her shoulders to keep her from sliding off the leather upholstery.

"I'm thinking of starting a second blog," she murmured into his shoulder five minutes after he thought she'd fallen asleep, and he jumped. "One for cases and one for our families to look at and see how the pregnancy's going. What do you think?"

Peering down at where she was tucked under his chin, Sherlock muttered, "Well, I can't exactly stop you. But it will keep Mycroft at bay, so I don't mind."

She laughed quietly against him. "I was thinking the same with my sister, actually. We're such terrible younger siblings."

"Really? I think we're doing an excellent job." She laughed again and he smoothed his hand over her back a few times. "Go to sleep; we'll talk later." With a contented hum she wriggled closer and really did fall asleep that time.

Sherlock buried his nose in her short scruffy hair, enjoying himself nearly to the point of feeling a bit revolting. It was so absurd to be in such ridiculous domestic bliss and actually be happy about it; never in his life had Sherlock imagined that one day he would have a child or something like a girlfriend, let alone have them both thrust upon him in one 36-hour period. He and Jo had briefly entertained the idea of living separately until they had passed the danger of spontaneous miscarriage, but it quickly became clear that, after two more casual meals and one rush back to Baker Street to catch _an actual axe murderer,_ followed by some of the most delectable sex either of them had had within living memory, they were far more compatible than limiting themselves to friendship. He snuck his hand around to Jo's front and rested it against the soft barely-there swell of her stomach. His child. Well, their child. Their baby.

Half an hour later Sherlock had to very carefully maneuver himself free from under Jo, arranging her in a more comfortable position and covering her with a blanket, in order to shake feeling back into his tingling limbs. He wandered over to the table, running both hands through his hair before looking down at Jo's meticulous desktop calendar and smiling to himself; she'd gone through and labelled down every approximate date for milestones until her due-date on the eighth of October, and then every approximate milestone for the baby through December. Staring at the month of October, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if he would last that long. Yes, he was completely enamored with Joanna and their impending parenthood now, but would he always be?

Jo sighed in her sleep, rolling over on the sofa, and Sherlock treaded quietly over to make sure she wasn't about to fall off the edge. Once certain, he hitched her blanket up higher and went back to the kitchen. He was halfway through emptying out old experiments when it hit him; of _course_ he wouldn't always be enamored with being a father, but that didn't take away his responsibility or obligation to raise up a fellow human being. And even if his infatuation with Joanna faded, there would always be something holding them together for the rest of their lives, through that child that they both would love no matter who they were or what they did.

It dawned on him when he could hear his own breathing that he was panicking; he reached for his coat and was out the door before knowing where exactly he was going. His hand shook as he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and dialed the first number to occur to muscle memory. After four rings Lestrade finally answered, and Sherlock nearly shouted, "_I'm going to be a father_," as he dropped to sit on the front step of 221B.

Lestrade laughed for probably two and a half minutes. _Welcome to the adult world, you sorry bastard. I would ask if you're gonna make an honest woman out of Jo, but I think you both and half of London would punch me. Though now you've come to terms with it, I suppose congratulations are in order._

"Yes, yes, fine," snapped Sherlock, "but what do I _do?_"

_You guess as you go and hope to God you made the right decision._

He sighed. "That information means nothing to me," he growled and hung up. God, how he wanted a cigarette, but the smell made Jo nauseous. _Everything_ made Jo nauseous these days; according to some of the books he'd compulsively collected over the past month she and the baby were at a critical transitional stage and a bit of sickness was a good sign. It was just the powerlessness, the inability to change anything, that irked him.

It was another 45 minutes of sulking on the front steps before the door creaked open behind him and Jo asked, "Sherlock, what are you doing out here?" in a sleep-muffled voice. "I fell off the sofa and you weren't in the flat."

"You - _again?_" he sputtered, jumping up. "You're not sleeping on the sofa anymore; it's obviously not safe."

She grinned toothily up at him. "You worry too much. Now come on, I've had an idea about the baby-blog." Grabbing his hand, she pulled him back up the stairs to 221B before he could protest. "I've got this jumper that's really big and stretchy, so I thought it would be a fun idea if I wore it for a picture once a week to put on the blog. Do you have a camera? Otherwise Mrs. Hudson probably has one, or maybe the married ones next door..." She continued to talk excitedly about her plans while Sherlock listened patiently, watching her gesture wildly as she got a bit overexcited and nearly knocked something over. But her eyes were tight around the corners, and her smile didn't fully reach them.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked once the stream had slowed, and Jo quieted.

Smoothing her jumper consciously over her stomach, she murmured, "I thought I might visit my mum today and tell her the news." Instantly Sherlock's mind went back to the night with the cabbie, his nasally voice asking "What about your mum? Why doesn't she love you anymore?" and Jo's violent reaction. Past wondering who Moriarty might be, Sherlock tried avoiding that disastrous second meeting at all costs only to save Jo the obligation of explaining an obviously touchy subject.

"Do you want me to accompany you?" he asked warily, unsure of how to proceed.

Joanna smiled and shook her head. "You don't have to."

"That's not what I asked."

She briefly twisted her mouth and flushed slightly as she considered it. "Yeah, okay. As long as you don't mind."

"Of course not," he assured her, though inside he felt like running as far and fast as he could. He wasn't good with his own family, let alone complete strangers who would inevitably want to know more about him and intrude on his private life because of the baby. Parents just didn't like him. And there was the matter of why Joanna was even going to see her mother at all after already mentioning not getting on with her sister, the cabbie's jab about her mother, and her stony silence in regards to her father.

They climbed into a cab and Jo gave the address of a nursing home in Ealing. She was wound up tightly as a spring, biting her nails and looking altogether so pitiful that Sherlock wanted to offer they turn back and save the journey for another day. But on the other hand he was loathe to prolong her anxiety any longer - if not for her own good than for the good of the baby - so instead reached across the seat and tugged her hand away from her mouth. One of the nails was bleeding. "Your mother's still relatively young but in an assisted living home. Early-onset Alzheimer's?" he gently guessed.

"No," replied Jo instantly, her voice eerily calm. "When I was fifteen my dad beat her so badly her brain hemorrhaged. She can't take care of herself."

It very suddenly felt as if Sherlock had been punched in the chest, now knowing what the cabbie meant when he said _What Daddy did_ but unsure of how he'd got the information. He wanted to taste blood. His hand tightened subtly around Jo's wrist, trying to reassure her. "Where is he?" he asked tightly.

"Killed himself before the trial."

Bastard. Sherlock didn't even get the pleasure of terrifying him into complacency. Still. At least he wasn't bothering Joanna anymore, at least not in the literal sense.

The receptionist at the front desk was very young, had only been at the job for a few weeks, and her eyes boggled at the sight of Sherlock trailing into the nursing home. Joanna inched closer to him and tried to ask for visitor badges, but the girl was too busy gawking and trying to look "cute" at the same time to help. Another nurse, a stocky young man and several years older, had to intervene. Very red but trying to pretend she wasn't bothered, Jo handed Sherlock a spare badge. The nurse glared at the receptionist before leading them down the corridor to Joan Watson's room.

"You know, no one's been around to visit in at least six months," the nurse said with obvious distaste, straightening his scrubs while trying to stare Joanna down.

"What?" she gasped, then sighed, "Oh, I will _kill _Harry... I'm sorry. I'll come by more and make sure my sister does too." They reached the door, but she waited until the nurse was gone before addressing Sherlock. "Listen, it's really okay if you don't want to come in. She's not all there, Sherlock."

He gestured impatiently for her to go in and that he would follow. Smiling bleakly, Joanna opened the door and almost instantly a woman's frail dreamy voice called out, "Hamish?"

Joan was a tiny woman of around 5-foot-four, around her daughter's height but a slimmer build, with a long graying-blonde braid trailing over one shoulder and a skittish expression.

"Hi, Mum; it's me, Joey," said Joanna cheerfully from the door, holding out a hand to keep Sherlock back for the time being.

For a moment Joan looked puzzled, glancing down at one of the hundreds of sticky notes plastered up around the bed. "But Joey's in Afghanistan," she read off of one of them.

Slowly, "Joey" stepped further into the room and sat in the chair opposite where her mother was perched on the edge of the bed. "I came home, Mummy. I missed you terribly, so I asked one of the Afghanis to shoot me and was sent home for my trouble," she grinned. Then she allowed her mother to reach out and run an age-softened hand over her cheek. Joan only looked to be in her mid-fifties, but acted like both a very old woman and very small child.

"Joey," breathed Joan happily. "Oh, baby girl, you grew up. You were just fifteen."

"I know, Mum, it's been a while. I brought a friend with me, would you like to meet him?"

"Hamish?" There was a fearful quaver in the woman's voice, and Joanna grimaced.

"No, Mummy, I promise not him. This-" she gestured to Sherlock that he could come in, then bit her lip as he trailed over to her shoulder, "-this is - my boyfriend, Sherlock."

He blinked at the title, but made no outward reaction. Joan beamed at the news and insisted that Sherlock lean down to hug her. The old woman was frail and had a delicate mind; there was no need to over-complicate things. Then Joanna said, "And guess what else, Mum? You're gonna be a granny."

Joan stared wide-eyed for a moment, then burst into tears and was completely inconsolable for several minutes. She seemed to have brief flashes of understanding that time moved differently for her, and that she would always feel lost and confused no matter how many times people tried to help her come to grips. It had to be frightening to know that even if they saw her every day she would just forget again. Joanna crawled up onto the bed and wrapped her arms around her mother until she stopped crying. Then the older woman, still sniffling, wrote out a sticky-note for herself. _Joey's having a baby with Sherlock. He'll do._

Sherlock was oddly touched. He sat quietly for the rest of the visit, only speaking when directly addressed. When the nurse came back to bring Joan to the dining room for dinner, they said their goodbyes and called another cab for home.

"I love my mum, but I hate this," Jo muttered halfway back, staring at her hands.

Sherlock immediately replied, "I understand. You want her to be involved but know that she can't." Then, after a long moment of thought, he added, "I suppose this means you'll want to meet _my_ family," as delicately as he could while making a face like he'd just sucked on a lemon.

Jo laughed until she cried. They spent the rest of the ride with one of his arms around her, and with his other hand under hers on the barely-there swell of the family they would start together, and hopefully get right.


End file.
